I was showering this morning (you know – getting wet, soaping up, hitting all the important parts and the less-important parts that just feel good to hit), when I was surprised by something… the bushiness of my bush. I mean, I knew I hadn’t trimmed her lately, so it made sense, but had no idea she was already so, um, natural. I struggled to remember the last time I had gardened down in my posy patch. Let’s see, I haven’t done the dirty in 75 plus 10 carry the one. Yeah. It’s been a while.
In my life, I’ve tried out many a ‘do on my Little Miss Don’t. For the first 25 years or so, she roamed free. Like a gazelle. Or maybe a porcupine. Then I found porn and realized that everyone didn’t look like me down under. Up until then, I had only seen other cooches in anatomy textbooks or National Geographic magazines or in my college dorm room. Every one I had ever seen pretty much looked like mine, give or take a few tufts. This world of partially hairless love pillows intrigued me. A snoozy sex life (I was watching the porno alone so, uh, yeah) lead me to try to jazz up my vageezy. I took a little off the bottom at first, as sort of a fuzzy version of training wheels. Or, at least that was the plan. But, for some reason, I couldn’t get it right. I couldn’t get it straight. I tried again and again to make a neat triangle, taking off tiny bits at a time. The triangle got smaller and smaller. Narrower and narrower. Soon, I was left with Hitler’s mustache, staring back from the handheld mirror. No, I supposed that wouldn’t do. I went full tilt boogie, cleaning up until all I was left with was a mound resembling a hamburger bun, split and all.
While it took a little getting used to, visually, I wasn’t really looking at it all that much. What I WAS doing was feeling it. It. Was. Awesome. I felt free, I felt sexy, I felt itchy. Okay, yes, it was a little itchy. But free and sexy! I vowed to never go back to the jungle!
But, time and two kids lead me back. I wandered away from the clean shaven muffin of yesteryear. I got busy. I got hairy. Then I got a job showing my business on camera. I went back to completely bare down there. But it seemed like a chore. It was for work, so I automatically resented it. It was a uniform for my pussy. As soon as I went back to wearing clothes for a living, I went bushy again. In fact, I’ve gone back and forth most of my adult life. My poor ladyfriend is a schizophrenic in a hall of mirrors.
So, back to this morning. I didn’t have time to fix her up right then and there in the shower. Once you get to the stage where it looks like you are smuggling Rip Van Winkle in your panties, it takes a while to right the wrong, if you know what I mean. I was late, as always, but drove extra careful on my way to work, lest I have an accident and have to be stripped naked in a hospital, only for them to find Richard Simmons’ fatter twin between my legs. I also tiptoed around at work, sure this would be the day that I amputate my arm in the flower chopper or one of my excoworkers comes in all disgruntled to settle the score. Not with me but, you know, sometimes there’s collateral damage. “Please don’t let me die today,” I prayed, “Not this way. Won’t spontaneously voiding my bowels be punishment enough for my misdeeds?” What I secretly DIDN’T reveal in the prayer was the fact that spontaneously voiding my bowels is not unique to death and, instead, pretty much a daily event for me.
So, I made it through the day without incident and am finally safe at home where I can makeover Wednesday Addams and take her from slightly frumpy to totally humpy. But it’s late. I had a hard day. I am tired. And the Berenstain Bears are on. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow… doubleprayers and then double blades. Probably.
This Week’s Totally Awesome Search Engine Terms That Lead To FYM!:
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This Week’s Totally Awesome Column I Wrote About Celebs And Shit:
I had two days off. In a row. I know.
What normal people call a weekend, retail workers call a vacation. And we sometimes have to stand on our heads, or knees, to get one. I may or may not have resorted to hinting to my boss that I was feeling a little overwhelmed at work and, when overwhelmed, I have a tendency to pee in coffee pots. She likes coffee, so she graciously agreed.
I wasn’t sure what to do with my two whole days, but I knew I wanted to take my adorable little family on the road. We decided on Baltimore, Maryland because a) it is only a 2 1/2 hour drive from our home in Richmond, Virginia; b) I had heard good things about the National Aquarium; and c) Baltimore in Summer is pretty much synonymous with beauty. Like Spring in Paris. But with more humidity, yelling, and spraying fire hydrants. Naturally, the whole thing turned into a traveling 3 ring shitshow, proving that I ought never leave the house except to replenish dwindling frozen pizza and Mountain Dew supplies.
Now, there’s something that you should know about me: I have no navigation skills, whatsoever. In a game of Pin The Tail On The Donkey, once I’m blindfolded and spun around, I couldn’t tell you what country I am in, let alone what direction I’m facing. I get turned around every time I venture outside of my neighborhood. If the Ingalls family had been cursed with me as a guide, they’d have never found the Little House. Hell, they’d have never found the Prairie! Sure, like most of my quirks, it can be charming for a short period of time, in a “silly girl can’t find her way out of a closet” kind of way. However, the charm quickly fades when you have to stand on a corner for an hour, waiting for me to show up while I desperately call you and play, “I’m coming. I swear. I just have no idea where I am.” Bonus points if I burst into tears. Double bonus if I miss the actual event we are meeting for. Anyway, the kids know this and have learned to dread every car ride. Bigger car ride = bigger dread and bigger likelihood I will accidentally take us somewhere we don’t want to go. It didn’t take me long to justify their misgivings.
Things really hit the skids (PUNS!) in Washington, DC. I’m not sure why the trusty mapping website I chose took us right through the middle of the city, but it did. The problem was, it got us in but couldn’t get us out. Seriously, we circled the Washington Monument many, many times. At first I was excited about the majesty and beauty of the mighty obelisk, then frustrated, confused, and angry. A girl hasn’t felt this nauseous near a giant white phallus since Monica Lewinsky got a little on her dress.
The natives grew restless.
Her: There’s no way we’re ever going to make it. They will find us ten years from now and we’ll be just bones.
Him: Yeah, but bones that are still driving around DC, trying to find their exit.
Cute. Driving Skeletons. At least they were amusing themselves.
Her: Gah! This trip is like Survivor. VOTE ME OFF THE ISLAND, PLEASE!
Timely. I wasn’t aware that she even had the money to hire 1990′s sitcom writers to express her displeasure.
Him: Hey, Mom, maybe the exit is like Platform 9 3/4. You just have to believe it’s there, and go at it at full speed.
Her: YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Let’s just try it. The worst that could happen is we would die.
Him: Really? The worst?
Her: Right.
Big high fives followed that last one. None of them from me.
Him: I wish I had a volleyball for a best friend right now. WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILSOOOOOOOOOON! WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILSOOOOOOOOOON! I’m sorry, Wilson, I’m sorry!
Wilson Volleyball could not be reached for comment.
I got us there. It took five hours, during which the girl spent a good amount of the time trying to find something sharp enough to end her misery and the boy begged me to never again have one of my “good ideas”.
Wilson? Well, Wilson just stood there.
When I was in high school, approximately ninety-nine years ago, I ran with a superstraight crowd. Well, not a crowd, exactly, but enough to play bridge except when one of us was mad at the rest, which was pretty much all the time. Anyway, we all decided to become Peer Counselors one semester, which basically meant that, for one period every day plus one after school session per week, we would make ourselves available to listen to and rap about (yeah, that’s right, I said “rap”. it was the ’80s (but just barely so, you know, shut up).) people’s problems; whether they be with friends, boyfriends, parents, teachers, their own weird bodies, whatever. We were instructed in suicide prevention methods (pretty much just calling a grownup), what to do if one of our “clients” wanted to hurt someone else (again, grownup), and dealing with reports of abuse (also, grownup. in fact, looking back, we were kind of just tattletales who got an hour to fuck around every day (please don’t tell my mom because it’s the only A I got in high school. oh, and French, but that was because I had a little flirt with Monsieur Silver) and rad tee shirts. Oh, yeah, there were tee shirts). We were the cool kids’ worst nightmare: Hall Monitors for your soul.
The thing is, I was sure I was going to be an actress, and everyone knows that actresses don’t have to care about other people, but thought that training to do so could only benefit me (duh) in case I needed to play someone who was empathetic. I practiced making concerned faces and sympathetic eyes in the mirror and really selling the whole caring bit. I decided that frosty pink lipstick really brought out the “I’m here for you, friend”-ness in my mouth and always wore Love’s Baby Soft, in case I wanted to go in for the hug with a little extra squeeze at the end for authenticity. I worked on crying on cue, but couldn’t master it. I hadn’t yet experienced enough tragedy in my life. Now, I’ve got more than enough material to draw from and nothing to fake cry for. Thanks a lot, life.
In the end, I think I saw a total of 10 clients all semester and never anyone more than once. Turned out, I was TOO superstraight for peer counseling. I had to ask my fellow counselors things like what a joint was or if lesbians were from Lesbia and, if so, where on the globe I could find it (yeah. that happened). No one wanted to tell their secrets to the girl who was like “Oh, I totally know about that. I read about it in Judy Blume’s ‘Forever’.”
But, before all this. Before the tattling and the fucking around and concerned face and sympathetic eyes and the confusion about drugs and sex, we had…
Peer Counseling Camp!
That’s right, folks. That, there, is a picture of me. And some other people. But definitely me, too. I don’t remember what we were singing, but I’m 100% sure it was inspirational and Up With People-y.
So, internet, now you’ve seen me. And my poor fashion choices. My anonymity just went out the window, along with my pride. Which is great because I was starting to feel a little bloated.
Her, apropos of nothing: “I wonder how Lil Wayne is doing in prison without his Purple Drank.”
Me: “What’s Purple Drank?”
Her: “Oh, it’s a drink made of cough syrup with codeine, 7Up, and Jolly Ranchers. He carries it around in a big cup.”
Me: “Ouch, no wonder he has a grill. Wait, how do you know this?”
Her: “Uh, maybe because I’ve been alive for more than five minutes.”
Him: “And because she watches more than kids’ shows on tv.”
Her: “Yeah, did you know there are tv channels without ‘Cartoon’ in their name?”
Him: “And ones that don’t end in ‘-odeon’?”
Her: “Wait, sometimes she watches the news.”
Him: “And cries.”
Her: “Right.”
Him: “Right.”
Me: “You guys are jerks. Also, I wish I had some of that Purple Drank.”
